


Madam Tracy's Outing

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Adventure, BAMF Madam Tracy, Background minor Aziraphale/Crowley, Background minor Michael/Ligur, Five Figure Fan Exchange 2020-21, Gen, Ghosts, Heaven and Hell unite in picking on Crowley, Humor, Madam Tracy - spy extraordinare, Psychic Abilities, Set pre-Antichrist, pre Madam Tracy/Shadwell, witchfinder army
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29606271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Shadwell is incapacitated, Madam Tracy takes up the banner of the Witchfinder Army. How hard can it be? Even if some of the clients are a little... eccentric. Especially the one with the posh voice and the one with dark glasses, both of whom seem to want to send her on the same mission.Tracy's used to eccentric clients. But the ghosts might become a problem.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	Madam Tracy's Outing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anticyclone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/gifts).



> Thank you for this request, anticyclone! I adore Madam Tracy, and I hope I've done her justice.

Tracy slowly made her way up the stairs. She was getting older, she supposed; Mr Lane was a nice old boy with an active imagination, but not very steady on his feet and he'd been gaining weight. Getting him into the sling while wearing stiletto boots had near put her back out. And now she was having one of her evenings in, and her friend Lisa was always a little difficult when it came to having her cards read. Most of Madam Tracy's other kind of customers were content with being told good fortune would come their way and to expect news soon, but Lisa had a habit of asking questions, and Tracy felt too tired to come up with too many answers. Perhaps she should cancel.

The house was oddly quiet without Mr Shadwell greeting her with shouting, and the Rajits were at their son's house for dinner, so there was no chance to pop in to see Rhada for a soothing cup of tea and chat. For the first time in a long while, Tracy was aware of feeling old and a little lonely. She supposed she missed him. Perhaps she should send him some flowers, brighten up his hospital room a bit, poor pet. Sneak him in some condensed milk to put in his tea. Flu was a nasty thing, and he never seemed to glow with health at the best of times. He also had the most endearing habit of blushing when he was around her. Needed someone to look after him. But then, she thought, don't we all? It seemed like it had been a long while since anyone had looked after her.

The phone rang as she made her way down the hall, and she brightened. Human contact, and not in the skin-to-skin way, that was what she needed. She pulled the handset off the wall.

Before she could bring out a greeting, a breathless voice asked, "Sergeant Shadwell, is that you?"

"I'm afraid he can't come to the phone right now. You aren't calling for the Witchfinder Army, are you? Mr Shadwell will be ever so pleased."

"Is he available, please?"

Tracy considered telling the mystery caller the truth, and hesitated. Mr Shadwell had never had a call in all the time he had lived across the hall from her, and now it happened when he was out. She'd always had a soft spot for ex-cons who came out of prison with shiny new convictions. Her own Dad had come out with an interest in Spiritualism that had been a source of much interest and profit to his bright young daughter. If Mr Shadwell's Witchfinder Army was finally picking up speed, she hated the thought of disappointing him. Especially since the man on the phone had the most lovely, plummy accent. Shadwell, in a moment when he was unbending, had told her that he had two sponsors who were mad rich men who didn't understand money. She didn't want to risk driving them away. And Mr Shadwell was poorly too, the lamb. She made up her mind. "He's on a mission right now, but perhaps I can help you. I'm Private..."

She meant to say Private Potts. She really did. After all, that was the name on her rental agreement. But some things, she considered, were almost a sin to refuse when they were handed to you on a plate, and while she was all for harmless sins in general, she wasn't going to refuse this gift. It was only a matter of a slightly different accent, she told herself. "I'm Private Parts." She held her breath in anticipation, waiting for his response.

"How lovely to meet you, Private Parts," the plummy voice said happily, and she wasn't sure if she was delighted or disappointed."I don't remember seeing your name on the accounts. Are you a new recruit?"

"Something like that."

"Well, welcome to the good fight against evil, dear lady. Always a pleasure to meet women in non-traditional occupations."

"I don't know, dear, I think my occupation is quite traditional. One of the oldest there is."

"Of course. Soldiers of the Lord, marching on their valiant way," the gentleman said vaguely. "Still, I feel sure there were fewer ladies involved in the old days, at least in most activities."

"True enough." Tracy settled in for a good chat. Her loneliness was easing, almost by magic. There was just... something... about the voice from the phone, something that reminded her of sunshine and warm blankets and childhood days in the country, easing the worries from her mind and replacing them with a golden sense of wellbeing. Even her hip felt better, and she felt a strange inclination to confide all her secrets. She just knew this stranger would understand. "Far more ladies than in the old days. Went to see one of my dears today, I think she's in it for a chat and cuddle and some attention more than anything, that no good husband of hers is always away down the pub chasing skirts. She near talked my ear off this morning. Not that she's not interested in the rest, my tongue is fair worn out from my labours."

"Keeping up your side of the conversation must be exhausting if she's that talkative," the charming man agreed, and Tracy stifled a giggle.

"Anyway, enough about me. What can I do for you, Mr..."

"Ah, I prefer to keep my name in the shadows, Private. I do have a request, if you would be so kind. There is an auction on Wednesday, and I urgently need to acquire a book coming up on the listing, but I'm afraid I'm being sent overseas at short notice. Can I trust the army to send a gallant agent and retrieve it? I will write a blank cheque for the book and for expenses, of course."

Tracy tried not to let her breath hiss in too obviously. Thank heavens she hadn't turned him away. "Of course. Private... Wallpaper and Corporal Spoon will attend, if I can't."

"I'm sure you will be more than adequate. It's unlikely to be a dangerous mission, although I do warn you, there may be evil forces interested in the book," the gentleman said, his voice richly thrilling. She got the impression he found the idea rather more exciting than not. "Do take good care of yourself. This is--this is really extremely important to me."

"Will I get to wear a disguise?" she asked hopefully. Some of her role-playing outfits hadn't be called for in quite some time. The sexy librarian, for example. That seemed a good bet for a book sale.

"I think that would be a very good idea," the man said gravely. "I'm glad I can rely on your professionalism to sort out these details. Now, about his book. Or grimoire, I should perhaps say." She noted down the details, intrigued. It was probably all nonsense, but she didn't see why she couldn't do it. A nice trip into the countryside by train, do her good to get out. The almost unheard of luxury of a taxi. And a good chance to earn some extra dosh for poor Mr Shadwell.

"Thank you so much. May you be blessed and have holy success in all the endeavours of your glorious occupation," said her nice and quite definitely barmy new friend.

"My clients do call out to God quite often when I do my job right."

"As they should. Have a lovely evening, Private Parts. The cheque will be on its way today."

As Tracy hung up the phone, her mood much improved, she had the strange impression that there was golden light surrounding her fingers. A trick of the sunset. No matter. She was putting on a reading that night, and stray lights were all to the good. Somewhere at the back of her mind she thought she should worry about it more, but the strange feeling of peace and joy was overwhelming, and she didn't question it too much.

She made her way into her sitting room and started to set up. Cups of tea ready first. Atmosphere, that was the key. Some incense burning, or rather some rather nice room freshener sprayed liberally around, lights down low, curtains drawn. An implication of the veil of mysteries, but with a good dose of the comforting everyday as well. Lisa liked her tarot cards, but Tracy thought her crystal ball always was good for adding a little air of magic, without being enough to make it too frightening. She sighed a little, at the thought of carrying it to her table when her back was hurting, but--no, actually, her back was fine. Must have solved itself.

She carefully set the heavy ball on the table, and turned to collect Lisa's favourite cards, The Little Fairies and Friends Tarot, and make sure some nice, reassuring ones were near the top. The Ace of Pentacles, the Lovers, the Sun, the Star, the Ten of Cups. Forget guides saying there was no such thing as a good or bad card; Tracy was of the firm opinion that no one wanted to see Death or the Hangman come up, thank you very much, and a happy customer was a repeat customer in both her professions. She'd long ago removed any cards likely to cause stress and upset.

She sat down and idly began to deal out cards to herself in a pentagram spread. The Hierophant in the form of a dear little Christmas tree angel, The Lovers, The Devil, the World. She stopped partway through. No. No, that couldn't be right. She had removed the Devil long before. She shuffled the deck, something she usually only pretended to do, and dealt again. The Devil, the Lovers, the Hierophant, Two of Cups. She hesitated, the next card still face down. The Devil smirked at her, a fiery little thing, and Tracy's gaze was caught by movement on her desk. Smoke, in her ball, forming into... a lizard? A serpent? Tracy reached out, with trembling fingers, and picked up the Devil card.

"Are you in, love?"

"Come in and take a seat, dear." The card in her hand was the Three of Wands, a lovely encouraging card if there ever was one, with three adorable elves heading out on a journey together. No Devil to be seen.

Lisa flopped into her chair, all tie-died drapery and dodgy Egyptian jewellery. "Such a day, lovie. You wouldn't believe what my Charlie was up to. Says he needs to rebel and join the Church of England, he's tired of all this old-fashioned conservative witchcraft nonsense. Did you ever? I was hoping you could give me some guidance."

"Of course, dear." Tracy shuffled the cards back, and concentrated."Magic spirits, heed my call."

There was a whirl of wings around her, shrieks of banshees, cries of dragons, the far off glow of a willow-the-wisp, and Tracy found herself saying, "You're heading for a fall, Lisa Marsden, out of your own carelessness and ill temper."

"Well, I never!" Lisa gathered up her draperies. "I'll not stay here to be insulted."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me," Tracy said helplessly, as the strange noises reduced. "Let me try with the cards." She chose a simple foundational layout. "This is the past, dear." The Hierophant. Well, that was a coincidence. She glared at the next card, daring it to be the Lovers again. "This is the present." The World, in the form of a fairy in a green dress. She let her shoulders relax. "And the future." The Magician, a pixie with a rather sweet little serpent curled around his waist. Well. That was fine.

"So, will Charlie see sense or not?"

Tracy touched the Magician with her fingertip, and the serpent unwound, hissed at her, and transformed into the Devil.

"Tracy?"

The Christmas angel beamed at her, and winked. A halo glimmered above his golden curls. Hadn't he been a girl angel, a moment ago?

"Madam Tracy, are you in there?"

She didn't dare look at the crystal ball. It was lifting slightly from the table, and glowing. She threw down the Devil and snatched up The Hierophant. "I think you'd better go," she said sharply. "It's not really safe here. Altogether too much magic and psychic power around."

Lisa gathered up her shawls and drapery, and let herself be hustled out, complaining all the way. She turned on her foot halfway down the stairs to make another complaint, and her foot twisted under her. There was a moment of horrified realisation passing between them as her other foot felt for purchase and found only air, and then she tumbled backwards.

Tracy rushed down the narrow stairs, all animosity dissolved in worry, to find Lisa whey-faced and frightened, but without serious injury, the poor duck. Once Charlie had been called to pick up his Mum, Lisa's sprained ankle had been bound up, and Tracy had brought her tea laced with copious amounts of sugar for the shock, they were the best of friends again. No real harm done.

Still, when Tracy was alone again, she pulled out the Hierophant and tapped it with her fingertip.

"That's enough of that," she said sharply. "You may mean well, you and your blessings, but the last thing a professional medium and fortune teller needs is actual psychic powers. They just cause trouble for everyone."

The angel beamed blandly back at her.

* * *

Tracy was in what was, for her, quite a bad mood when she got up in the morning and made herself some very strong, very sweet tea and some toast. She'd barely managed to sleep all night, what with the little girl playing with her Magna-Doodle in the corner of the room, and the see-through gentleman who kept wandering through the walls and calling for his lost cat. It was only the sound of the mail arriving that gave her the energy to emerge.

She stomped down the steps, hoping that if the cheque had arrived already, it would have a return address, and she could tell the gentleman on the phone what she thought of his blessings. There was, indeed, an envelope on expensive paper, and rather unformed spindly handwriting--perhaps he was older than he had sounded, and had arthritis in his hands, and no she was _not_ going to soften at that thought, not when she was hearing some Victorian maiden trying to sell cherries to oblivious passers-by out on the street--addressed to Sergeant Shadwell. She tore it open.

No cheque. Just, in the same spidery hand, an instruction to meet at ten in the morning in the teashop next to the pound shop a couple of streets away, to be discreet, and to use the code-word Pears. The hall clock told her it was already five past. Right. She would meet him and sort it all out.

But what to wear? He'd told her to be discreet. Tracy hesitated a little, and decided black was best. Yes. Dim memories of having read a magazine article about Christine Granville prompted her to add brunette waves, and false eyelashes to add a touch of mystery. She hesitated only a moment before adding a perky little beret. Might as well enjoy herself.

There was only one customer who was not sitting in a couple or group already, and he didn't really look the way she'd pictured her gentleman from the phone. He was tall and lanky, but probably was playing along with some kind of spy fantasy, given the dark glasses and the hat pulled low over his head. Tracy was pleased. she liked a man who made an attempt to step properly into her role. She stepped towards him--

The never-ending fire, roaring, devouring, unbearably hot, and yet piercingly cold at the same time. The screams of lost souls, the howling of the hounds, the growls of the monsters, the stench of corruption and brimstone. The endless drips of slime from the ceiling, and the unyielding chant of Too Late, Too Late, Too Late...

She turned to flee in blind panic as the thin man in black half rose from his plastic chair. All she could think of was that she had to get away from this thing in human form, this pure evil. As she stumbled, her heel turning, she heard an amused voice say, "Oi! Well spotted, but we can't have that." And a noise. A snapping noise. Like human bones, or...

Clicked fingers. The fear drained out of her, and she turned, as if pulled by some unstoppable force.

"You're from the Witchfinder Army, I presume?" asked the man. He'd taken off his hat, and he was no longer young, but ever so good looking. Completely normal, despite the dark glasses. The worst Tracy could think of him was that he dressed rather sexily for his age, but she was hardly one to be a judge of that. For a moment she had thought... she had heard... but it slipped away from her. This was clearly the man she had come to meet, for better or worse.

"Private... Parts," Tracy said, helplessly, and looked at him half in hope, half in despair.

The man gave her a long, cool, blank stare, as much as she could tell given his huge sunglasses, then the corner of his thin lips twitched. "I see. Interesting. There is more raw talent in the lower ranks than I expected. Sergeant Shadwell was unavailable?"

"He trusts me, sir." Tracy knew better than to ask his name. "Ah, do you have any pears?"

"Well, you do seem uniquely fitted to the role of witchfinder. Take a seat, Private Parts. I have a special heist for you."

"A heist?" She gingerly sat down. The plastic was a bit sticky, and a long and varied career had taught Tracy better than to trust sticky plastic.

A little of his sparkle seemed to fade. "Well, more like an auction purchase. But it is vital my name doesn't become associated with it, and I can't risk leaving it to online bidding. You see I have a... friend... Well, it's essential that he doesn't see me purchasing a book. This book. Any book. But particularly this one. He's a bookshop owner, you see," he added, and then, seeming to realise that fully didn't explain his concern, "He's against the whole concept of people buying and selling books unless he's the one doing the buying. It would cause him unnecessary distress."

"A book," Tracy said, out of a certain inescapable knowledge that had nothing to do with her newly acquired psychic powers.

"A grimoire, I suppose. Full of dark and black magic and demonology that... Well, of course I'm only hunting it to keep it out of the hands of witches and other evil folk," the man said hurriedly. "But it is extremely important that I get it." Tracy opened her mouth to say so sorry, she was already engaged in a way that made it impossible to take on the mission, but then he said the magic words: "Spare no expense. You have an unlimited budget for this one, as long as you bring me the book."

Once, in Tracy's past, she had lived a life working in an accountancy firm. She was good at creative expenses. And Mr Shadwell--well, she had seen inside his flat. He could do with a new fridge. A new carpet. A new... everything.

She smiled, as warmly and reassuringly as she could. "There will be an extra fee, of course, for dealing with demonic grimoires."

"Of course," drawled the man, smiling at her. He had rather an attractive smile, crooked and wicked. His voice was pleasant too, almost sexy, but with an odd lisp, a hissing of the esses that vanished every time she concentrated on it. "It's far above my pay grade to stand in the way of Mammon. I'll write you a blank cheque. Two. One for expenses, but don't cheat me." He had a very interesting pen, she reflected. Sleek and black. He caught her interest and gave her a fleeting grin. "It works upside down underwater."

"Well, that must come in handy," she said vaguely, and was almost sure he blushed.

Tracy took the cheque home, carefully tucked away in her handbag. On the doorstep, she found another envelope, addressed in a flowing, graceful hand that looked more suitable a match for the plummy voice on the phone.

"Well, then," she said aloud. She pulled out the man in sunglasses' cheques and compared her haul of blank cheques, wondering, if she did so, what the chances were that two different clients of Shadwell's insisted on keeping their names a secret, and then used cheques with said names printed conveniently under their signatures. Three blank cheques... She could draw a substantial amount of money, and go somewhere sunny to retire. Get a little dog, or a cat.

She could also sign her own death warrant. She glanced up at her reflection on the wall. The mirror needed cleaning, but she could see herself. A pretty woman, she supposed, no longer young. A woman who enjoyed herself and her life and other people, all in all. A woman who acted on impulse and whose native good sense usually got her out of it, but eventually the coin might come down on tails, and then where would she be?

"You've done it this time, Marjorie Potts," she told her election. "The chances that those two are on the same side is worse than none, and one of them has magical powers of some kind, and the other seems to work for organised crime. Friend with a bookshop, my foot. Still," she added comfortingly, her natural optimism reasserting itself, "I'm sure if I do my best it will all work out in the end."

The maiden selling cherries stepped through the door, and offered Tracy a cherry from her basket. She tried to take it, but her hand passed straight through, and she was in, as she would put it, a bit of a mood when she stomped upstairs.

"Hullo," said the little girl in the bedroom. She was more clear than she had been the night before, and it was possible to tell she was wearing brown velour overalls over an orange t-shirt. "Want to see my picture?"

Tracy felt a creeping feeling down the back of her spine, but she repressed it. It was just a child, dead or not, and Tracy liked children, having had none of her own. She was also no coward. "Of course, love." It seemed to take more courage than anything she had done in a long and full life to cross the room and look down at the Magna-Doodle's transparent white screen. She half expected to see signs of the torments of hell, a gory death or an ominous message, but it was a teddy bear. It had one eye, which made her shiver for a second before realising it was her own teddy bear, Bertha, who was sitting on the bed, and the little girl had drawn it for her. She really should sew the eye back on.

"It's lovely, dear. What's your name?"

"Jessica."

Tracy tried to put an arm around the child's plump shoulder, but the nasty shivering feeling, like a dying fish writhing against her, made her pull back. "Why are you here, Jessica? Is there anything I can do for you? Do you--do you want someone to play with?" she asked bravely.

"I'm okay. I'm waiting for Mum to get back from the shops. We're going to watch Doctor Who together tonight. The Doctor's trapped in a lighthouse." Jessica smiled at Tracy. "I really, really need to know what happens, but it's too scary to watch on my own. K9 is so cute! I'm going to be just like Leela when I grow up. She never lets boys push her around."

"I'm sure you will, dear. Leela is my favourite, too." Tracy had rarely wanted anything as much as she wanted to hug the little girl. The girl was becoming mistier by the moment. "Do you need to go somewhere?"

"It's hard talking. I'll say hi again later." Jessica gave her a bright smile, and vanished, leaving Tracy staring at the empty spot where she had been sitting.

Tracy sat down and had a good think for a while, and then she took the bus to the library to use the internet. There weren't many ghosts on the way, and none of them tried to interact with her. She wasn't sure whether they knew she was there or could see her, or if they cared if she saw them. She waved at some a few times, and tried to strike up a conversation, secure in the knowledge that people on London suburban buses saw a lot worse than a woman of mature age trying to get the attention of thin air. None of it worked. They were all intent on business of their own. She supposed that ghosts weren't, like she pretended to customers, constantly lined up wanting to talk to the living and give vague but encouraging messages, but were concerned with their own concerns. She wasn't even sure if most of the ones she saw were people or just echoes of their presence.

Jessica was definitely a person.

Tracy needed the librarian's help a little, but she picked up things fast. She didn't much like what she learned. She sat for a while with her head in her hands, blinking back tears, while her session timer ticked down. Well. She'd known it wouldn't be something nice. Nothing pleasant led to the ghost of a nine-year-old. She'd never so much appreciated the Rajits, who had been fairly new owners when she moved into her flat. Not only were they good company, exceptionally tolerant of running a traditional business from home and Shadwell's approach to housekeeping, they were absolutely scrupulous about checking fire alarms and carbon monoxide readers. A young single mum had passed out from carbon monoxide poisoning at the wheel, while at home...

She stared at the chubby face of the little girl. It didn't bear thinking about. Poor lamb.

Tracy only had a few minutes left online when she stirred herself to search for the names on the cheques. A Mr A. Z. Fell ran an antiquarian bookshop, but there was no website and no other details of him, but that was to be expected if it hadn't even occurred to him to make his bid online. She was pretty sure that was her man. Anthony J. Crowley was a mystery, but...

She stared at a forum post in which people were suggesting best antiquarian bookshops in London. _A. Z. Fell has an amazing selection, especially if you're looking for religion or occult. Has a full set of Oscar Wilde first editions. Just try to get the old bastard of an owner to part with them, though. Prices are outrageous. And it's never open._

Someone else had chimed in _He seems like a fussy old angel, but I dropped a book and a page fell out, and he transformed into a demon. There was even a smell of brimstone, and a man in black came out from the back room and HISSED at me._

She was still staring at the screen, her mind repeating "He's a bookshop owner, you see. He's against the whole concept of people buying and selling books unless he's the one doing the buying," when her session timed out.

The Devil had turned up over and over, as if the Hierophant was trying to warn her. And--well, she'd never held much truck with the idea of necromancy as evil, surely chatting to the dead was polite at best and a harmless diversion at worst, but it did seem that she could see the dead now. That was, as she could dimly remember from Sunday School, a sin. Well. She had made a deal with the Devil and now she had demonic psychic powers, she supposed. If ghosts were real, there was no reason demons wouldn't be. Perhaps asking Mr Fell to correct them would not be as wise a course as she had hoped. But perhaps, if she held the book, she held the power. And then there was his "friend", if demons could be said to have friends. The friend who hissed. He'd seemed so nice, too. Sympathetic. Maybe that was his trick.

She couldn't see a way through quite yet, but she was beginning to have an inkling.

The sexy librarian outfit seemed to have shrunk a little since the last time Tracy put it on, but that just made it sexier. She could move well enough in rubber, she wasn't going to let some pink faux tweed and a twinset defeat her. She managed to wrestle at least one pearl button through its little loop to hold the cardigan closed over the shelf of her bosom, checked the seams of her stockings were in place, with much craning of her neck and twisting, and selected a prim brunette wig. As a final touch, as the lady of mystery she was, she tied a silk scarf over her hair and put on dark glasses almost as large as those worn by Mr Crowley the morning before.

Mr Crowley. There was an odd feeling at the corner of her brain, a vague anxiety that tugged at her memories when she thought of him, but she shook it off. He was a strange man, not nearly as posh as that demon Mr Fell sounded, but ever so handsome and charming.

"I don't suppose you'd like to come with me on a train trip to the country, love?" she asked Jessica, who was back and playing with Sindy dolls in her corner of the room. She'd slept better the night before, and Jessica was good company in her quiet way. Tracy could do without the wandering man, though. She had no real objection to strange men in her bedroom, but she preferred them to pay upfront. And that was a thought. House-calls only, until she was sure of not being watched by a child ghost. It was possible she'd been watched before, but at least she wasn't aware of it.

The little girl shook her transparent head. "Mum said not to leave until she got home."

"All right, dear. I'll try to bring you something fun to look at when I get back tomorrow."

Tracy trotted off to the train station, casting a longing look at her moped. She felt she would look fairly dashing and Mediterranean on it with her scarf, but she was a little worried about the seams on her stockings, and her heels were quite as high as her spirits. This would be an adventure, and one with unlimited expenses. The sky was clear and blue, even the pollution seemed to have cleared, and a day out in Kent just suited her, especially as Mr Fell had urged her on the phone to spend the night in a nice hotel, and to make sure she was comfortable. It seemed a bit extravagant to spend a night in a hotel after such a short trip, and not even weekending or charging by the hour, but someone as posh as that could afford it. She just felt sorry about leaving Jessica to her lonely vigil. That girl needed some company, and a hug.

Something, Tracy felt, should be done about Jessica. And she supposed she was the woman to do it.

She spent some time inspecting her surroundings to make sure she wasn't being followed, but quite disappointingly no one seemed very interested in her. Both Mr Fell and Mr Crowley had suggested she might be in danger, but there was none there. When she reached Liverpool she considered tracking Mr Fell down to Soho, and then shook herself. No sensible woman would let a possible demon know she had tracked him to his lair when on a quest for him. It was all quite exciting, really, and she felt ten years younger. She stopped for a cup of frankly undrinkable coffee and changed for Kent.

The auction house itself was more a case of down at heels Victorian practicality than the romantic, luxurious setting she had imagined in her head. She'd hoped for a manor house with sweeping staircases and beautiful grounds, the book she was looking for nestled among ancient gold-leafed furniture and magnificent paintings, but instead there were white walls, and while there was some solid furniture in the lots, there were also office chairs and household goods and a rather interesting collection of gay pornographic magazines. An estate clearance, said the nice gentleman assisting her. Everything that was remotely sellable had been sent there by the executors, and anything that didn't get bid on would be donated to charity.

"Even the magazines?"

The young man working there, who had been extremely kind about showing a lady new to the auction scene around, grinned. "There's already been a fair amount of interest in _Lusty Studs_ and _Young Hunks_ , don't you worry about that."

She finally spotted the book she was looking for, half hidden behind the magazines. She had expected a grimoire to be a weighty, leather-bound text with rustling parchment pages, just the kind of thing to sell in a demon's bookshop, but it was hand-bound cardboard with thin, typed pages. The name was clear, though. On the Summoning and Binding of Demons. Opening to the front page, drawn in green ink, was a picture that made even Tracy, who had seen some things in her life and no mistake, shudder and put it down. The artist had to be mad, she thought. The... bits... coming out from the other bits... Her mind sheered away from it, trying not to recall the details, although she was sure she would remember quite well when she woke up screaming in the night.

"Bit of a curiosity, that," said the young man. "Nasty stuff."

"How much do you suspect it will go for?"

"Can't tell, really. Might not sell at all, might have attracted the right attention on the internet listings."

"Do you believe in demons?" Tracy asked, examining him carefully. He certainly didn't look Satanic, even if he'd missed a patch shaving his right jawline. But Mr Fell hadn't sounded demonic.

"All a bit of fun, isn't it?" He shifted uncomfortably, and she wasn't sure if it was guilt, or because she had unconsciously dropped back into her more, ah, dominant persona, and not everyone enjoyed a bit of light discipline, especially in public. She gave him a kind smile and patted him reassuringly on the arm, pretending not to notice the distraction of the ghost of an old woman who had drifted into the room and was sobbing in the corner. He relaxed. "Can't imagine they were real, or the former owner would have more in the way of worldly goods."

"There's more than one kind of wealth," Tracy said, thinking of the magazines. "Did he by any chance have a surprisingly successful social life?"

Her young friend winked at her, raising a finger to his lips, and she laughed. Although she shouldn't, really. When she thought about it, the idea was fairly unpleasant. She looked away, still trying to avoid the ghost, and her eye fell on a lot of assorted VHS tapes. One caught her eye. Now, wasn't that a coincidence...

The weeping ghost was beckoning to her. Only a foolhardy idiot, Tracy reckoned, would follow a terrifying grey lady in Victorian garb anywhere.

She followed the ghost out onto the street. It would be more romantic, she thought, if it had been the emerald and velvet gardens of her imagination, but it was the street of a small town lined with terraces and there was nothing that could be done about it.

"I knew you could see me," the ghost said, with a kind of mournful triumph. "I'm Cecilia. It's so good to talk to someone at last. I've been so lonely."

Tracy needed to get back in and get a good seat. She needed to buy the book. She couldn't be out here gabbing with a ghost. A lonely ghost... She sighed and took a seat on a bench outside the disused railway station the auction was held in. "Why don't you pass on, then?" She would not, she would not, she had her own problems and didn't need to take on those of every spirit she could see... "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"I don't think so. I'm just afraid." The old lady looked away, across the train lines, and Tracy had a horrible premonition that she knew what had happened to her. There was no wind, but something was whipping silver strands from the lady's tight bun anyway. Her clothes were well made, but Tracy's keen eye noted loose threads. "Nobody loved me in life. My parents wanted a son to take over or a pretty girl who would marry well. I had no chance of making a good marriage, I was so plain, you see."

Tracy looked at the hollow cheeks, the small eyes and bony shoulders, the prominent moles on the chin of the ghost, and was abruptly furious at the universe. As if it _mattered_ if someone had a thin lower lip or poor complexion. All the same in the dark, so to speak, and who was to say that a pointed chin was prettier than a square one? All this love going around to waste on people who didn't want it, and this poor... soul... had lived without it. And her parents! Tracy had never had children, and there was an ache there so long ago and painful she didn't want to think about it, but she would never reject her own child. Her heart ached to pat the insubstantial needs and take the lady in and make her a nice hot cup of tea with lots of sugar, but none of that was possible, so she sat and listened instead.

"I was always the unwanted poor relative. I didn't want to live. But... I don't think there's a single soul in Heaven that will be glad to see me. Not a one. And I can't bear the thought of being unwanted even in Heaven."

"There, there, dear." Tracy tried to pat an insubstantial, bony knee. "Are you bound to this place?"

"No. But I don't know where else to go."

She was a fool. An old, soft fool. As if she needed more of a ghost problem. But on the other hand...

"I could always do with more friends myself," she said. "And I think I know a little girl who could do with a Nan." It might not work, but it there was never any harm in trying. "You come along with me after the auction and don't you worry about a thing. I'm Tracy."

"I'm Cecilia." The grey lady gave her a nervous smile.

"Hello, Cecilia. I'm glad to be your friend," Tracy said, and the pearlescent glow emanating from the ghost made it all worth it. "Now, I need to see a man about a book."

* * *

The chairs were plastic and uncomfortable for a woman with a behind of generous proportions and a very tight faux tweed skirt, but Tracy managed somehow. She sat grasping the blue square of paper with her number on it, trying not to be distracted too much by the auctioneer's somewhat fascinating patter. Really, she could understand why people lost their heads in auctions. There was something about this room with its white walls crowded with dusty tat, the rhythmic rise and fall of the auctioneer's voice, that created an entirely new revelation that she really would like a solid bronze inkwell with a statue of Ruth at the well, only sixty pounds... can I hear forty then... come on ladies and gents, it's worth more than that...

Yes, yes, it is, Tracy thought passionately, but before she could raise her number, she caught sight of Cecilia, floating around the room, bringing her back to her own strange reality. Goodness, neither of the agents she was acting for wanted Ruth at the Well. One had a very modern looking pen already, and the other, well, she wouldn't put it past him to be still using a dip pen or even a quill, but he probably had his own inkwell. Besides, did demons usually want that kind of thing? She had to focus on securing the demonology grimoire. Demons... her mind still reached out for the thought, something on the edge of memory, something trying to speak to her.

The room darkened, and the auctioneer's patter, all the normal human sounds of the room faded. She could feel wind howling at the edge of her consciousness. Cecilia shrieked, "Tracy, run!" and was gone, vanishing through the wall. There was a smell... oh, rotten eggs, she had read before that brimstone smelled of rotten eggs but she was unprepared for how utterly foul it was. And slime, she could feel slime all around her, and hear screaming, desperate and without hope... There were heavy steps behind Tracy, and someone settled into the chair directly behind her. Someone. Or something. She lifted her paper in front of her face, trembling. She had to get out before she fainted, she told herself, but she hesitated. She needed the book. Perhaps Mr Fell had come for it, not trusting her, and she could beg him for mercy, showing that she was doing as she was asked. Perhaps... Perhaps she wasn't going to let any bloody demon boss her around. She had her simple human sins, like everyone else, and her profession was not really a virtuous one, and perhaps she was a bit of a charlatan, but she'd always done her best to be kind and good, not according to any rules but according to what she felt in her heart.

And then it was like she was bathed in light, cool, clean and somewhat harsh light, and a sharp sweet smell of cinnamon, washing away the sensation of Hell. There was a moment when she thought she was going to go crazy, and then suddenly, it shifted into balance. The darkness and light balanced, and she felt human again. The auction house and its sounds came back into focus.

"Fancy seeing an archangel here." The voice was earthy and oddly attractive, and it was incredibly clear, as if all the other sounds in the room were mere background. "Slumming it, Michael?"

No. Tracy had had a picture book when she was a child, with the Apostles and the archangels, but she was sitting in a rather crowded and drab auction house with clean white walls and it simply couldn't be. The voice that answered was elegant, crisp and feminine, and not the ringing tones of a warrior angel casting down Satan, after all.

"You invited me."

"Didn't really expect you to come."

"I shouldn't have. I really don't see what you want me to do. I shouldn't be here at all. If I should be seen talking to you..."

"Trust me. This one is worth it. Oh, you're going to owe me big, you are. There's the name of the bloody Serpent of Eden himself in that book."

There was a hiss of breath. "His true name?"

"Yeah. I mean, obviously I can't bind him myself. He's the Boss's little favourite ever since that apple business, can't make a move against him in public. But if an angel was to find the means to capture and control him..."

"Why would you betray one of your own?"

"Betrayin's what we do, right? Famous for it. Check the wings. Look, Mikey, we know he's been a thorn in your side for a while. All set to get Aziraphale's cushy little positoin on Earth, weren't you, until he nixed it?"

"How on Earth did you know that?"

"Dagon's got a good surveillance department set up, not that she bothers to check it. Not your problem, anyway. Get some revenge, get one up over Aziraphale, get some shiny new sparkles in your halo for neutralizing the snake."

"Why me?"

"We always got along all right, didn't we?"

There was a long silence. "I don't get along with the Fallen." The voice was prim, and a little horrified. "Working together for mutual benefit doesn't mean I have any affection for you."

"Yeah, yeah, right. But you're here, aren't you?"

She hummed noncommittally. "What's in it for you?"

"Never having to sit through one of Crowley's special presentations on his evil deeds ever again. You should have seen the one on Tetris. Torments of Hell, they say, got nothing on one of Crowley's presentations. Seem to go on for decades. And he wrote on Beelzebub's favourite whiteboard with a permanent marker. Pink permanent marker, Michael, can you believe it? Couldn't be removed by magic. Beelzebub was so pissed off we were all on ceiling leak duty for weeks. Nah, we all want rid of the snake. Besides, there's a rumour something big is coming and it's going to be entrusted to Crowley, and none of us want the slimy bastard to get it. He'd be even more of an insufferable git."

Tracy felt like her heart was beating so loudly in the next few minutes that it was a miracle neither of them could hear it. And how could she hear them? She was almost sure no one else was responding. It must be a side effect of the blessing, or curse, or whatever it was that Mr Fell had given her.

"I do sympathise," the feminine voice said. "Aziraphale once gave a lecture on molecular gastronomy that ran for eight hours. Tried to say it was proof of humanity's inherent goodness and creativity, making gross matter into foams and gasses. He tried to perform demonstrations and set fire to Uriel's favourite spats." A. Z. Fell. Oh, _really_. Things felt like they were falling into place at last.

"Some gross matter is delicious."

"Well, you _would_ like gross things, Ligur. It's in your nature." There was a note of affection behind the cold elegance.

"Take you out for a drink and a meal after the auction, if you like. If you're stationed on Earth after all this palaver, you'll need to learn to blend in. And my lizard likes you." He chuckled, a surprisingly charming chuckle. "Wait until you see some of the lots that come up. They've got dinosaur fossils, always good for a laugh."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake."

"None of that language here, Mikey."

Tracy held her courage tightly in her hands, along with her paper. She lowered it and smiled and nodded at the nice auctioneer, who was looking at her as if he was concerned for her wellbeing. She gave him a little wave, and waited for the book to come up.

The roomfell into an almost hushed silence as the total crept up. No one had expected much for this book, twenty quid at most. Not two hundred. Not--Tracy bit her lip, and remembered the blank cheque--two thousand. And still it crept up.

"Lady in the pink?" The auctioneer looked half hopefully at her and half like he he expected her to vanish in a cloud of pixie dust, and Tracy raised her number again.

"Two thousand two hundred. Do I hear two thousand five hundred?"

"Got it," rasped Ligur.

How was she supposed to outbid Hell? She really hoped the blank cheque worked in her favour. "Five thousand."

"Any advance on five thousand?"

"Well?" hissed Michael.

"Out of dosh," Ligur hissed back. "Miracle some more up."

"What? _You_ miracle it up."

"And have them find out I'm hatching plans against the Boss's favourite? No fear."

"Well, I can't be expected to miracle up human currency to buy a book on demonology. I don't want anyone to know what we--what I'm up to. Uriel is so strict with accounts, she says five thousand pounds is enough to buy a palace."

"Might be a bit behind inflation wise if a ruddy book costs five grand. Look, let her have it." Wild joy leapt in Tracy's heart. "We'll get it back later." her heart shattered the joy.

"Sold, to the lady in pink for five thousand pounds."

"Or you could just take it now," Michael said, conversationally. "What's the use of a demon, otherwise?"

"I told you, no ruddy miracles! I'm not having this on my record, not when Crowley's still in favour with the Lower Echilons."

"Come on, then. Let's talk."

It took every nerve she possessed to get Tracy through the next lot of the auction, feeling the demon and angel behind her. It was almost worse when they got up and moved out of the room. She had no idea what they looked like--maybe she should ask Cecilia--and they could be anywhere. Her ankles felt weak in her high heels as she headed for the auction house cashier after the close of the auction. Waiting in line, she was terribly conscious of how exposed she was. But she could feel neither good nor evil presence, and they were almost equally alarming. Aziraphale had felt entirely different, warm and golden, but Michael was terrifying, like a sword. It felt like hours before Tracy reached the front of the queue and paid up. A few items surprised her.

"I'm sure I didn't bid on them. I..." Oh. She remembered nodding and smiling, the odd jerks of her head she had made, and felt distinctly foolish. After all, really it was like she was in some sitcom from the seventies or something, making a rookie mistake like that. Still... she looked down at the itemised receipt. It was a coincidence. And she was beginning to believe less and less in coincidences, with all this magic around.

* * *

"I wrapped them in brown paper for you already," the helpful young man who had shown her around said. He winked roguishly. "More discreet that way. You must have _really_ wanted that book. Or do you want it sent on somewhere? Might be better off insured."

"I'll take everything with me," she said firmly, not wanting to let it out of her sight. So much for staying in a nice hotel. She wasn't going to stay in this town a moment longer than she could manage. Besides, she wasn't dragging some innocent delivery person into her problems. Probably better not to stay in her own flat, either, even though poor little Jessica was waiting for her. She did hope Cecilia and Jessica would get along, but she was not really worried. Desperate for love, both of the poor strays.

Cecilia trailed after her as she headed for the train station, the real active one back to London. She was glad she boarded a train at the last possible minute; less chance of being followed. She was glad, too, for Cecilia's company. The ghost would be useless in a crisis, she had already established that, but she was company, at least. No humans at al followed her into her carriage.

So when Cecilia turned even paler, Tracy looked at the apparently human couple sitting across from her, and knew them for what they were. They were both handsome, the woman tall and slender in a pale expensive suit, the man with soft curls, a strong cleft chin and, absurdly, a lizard sitting on his shoulder. Awareness of Heaven and Hell swept over her, and there Tracy was, balanced in the middle. Small and human.

At least, she thought dazedly, she had killer shoes on. A woman could do anything, in heels like those.

"Hullo, Miss or Sir as the case may be," the man said genially. "Saw you at the auction. Quite the coincidence, being on the same train."

Quite, she thought, but there wasn't much point pointing that out.

"I wonder if you could help us out," Michael said, moving to stand slim and poised and lovely and very definitely blocking the entrance. "We're very interested in that book you purchased."

"Has to do with a friend of mine, y'see." Ligur had a very charming smile. "Really important to him. Wondered if you'd consider parting with it at all."

"No, thank you. I promised it to a friend of my own." Her fingers tightened on her parcel.

"I can make it worth your while. Anything you want. Restore your youth and beauty. Make you irresistible."

"I do quite well already, thank you. Nothing a bit of slap and a nice wig can't help. And besides, would you take just my book, or my immortal soul along with it?"

Michael laughed, and clapped her hands. "Well done. Always define terms before coming to an arrangement. But _I_ won't sell you to the devil, Miss." Her voice became liquid, caressing Tracy like a bubble bath lapping at her soul. "I'm an angel. Giving it to me would be a good thing to do, the very best. I want to use it against an evil demon like this creature here. You would be truly blessed if you help me in my noble work, human."

"No, thank you," Tracy repeated firmly. "You and your young man here can both leave me alone."

"Oh, blow this for a lark," said Ligur, his teeth flashing huge in his face. "I'm just going to kill her."

Tracy hadn't prayed so long as she could remember, but the words "God help me!" came to her lips out of some long instinct.

Ligur laughed. "You can't tell me you believe in God, woman like you. You're one of ours. After all, what do you believe in?"

What _did_ she believe in? Not Sunday school and books of stories and rules. She'd thought she believed in evolution, but the conversation between the demon and the angel had disrupted all her thoughts on that subject. God? But she had never been quite sure, and no one was answering her prayer now. Even the archangel in front of her wasn't going to save her, so what was the use of praying to God?

"See." A nasty grin split Ligur's face, and he didn't seem so attractive after all. "Might as well give me the book, darlin'. If there's nothing you believe in, than I can get you. What did you come here for anyway? Power? Money? Greed? Pride? Or some virtue? Don't make me laugh. I know humans. Awful lot of you down where I live." The lizard's tongue flickered blue.

Michael was watching, an eyebrow quirked in an interested manner, as if intrigued by the answer. Tracy still had none to give. Why _had_ she come? She hadn't wanted to let Mr Shadwell down. Surely that was a virtuous enough answer, helping a lonely and ill man? She had wanted money for them both... no, no that was a trap. To please nice Mr Fell, who she had thought was a demon and now she thought she had got very wrong? For the adventure of it? Why was she here? Despair and fear began to pull at her soul, and Michael sighed and rolled her eyes.

She had come... She was meant to come. She was meant to be at this time and place. She had been meant to come for the book... No, not the book, that was the wrong answer, though she wasn't sure how she knew. There had to be a better reason.

Ligur rose to his feet, grinning triumphantly, and raised a hand. Fire flickered around his fingertips, and she could hear screaming, like a million souls trapped in lava and beyond all help, screaming into eternity. She was too afraid, she couldn't think...

The answer flashed into her mind, clear as a vision. Perhaps it was a vision. She was apparently a genuine psychic, now.

Tracy needed the book as a bargaining chip for Jessica's sake. She needed to get home safely for Jessica and Cecilia. She would not fail them. Or Mr Fell or Mr Crowley either, or the Rajits and her friends and her customers who would worry about her. All the people who depended on her, because she had her faults and her sins, but what she was good at was--

"Love and kindness," Tracy said, astonished herself at how firm her voice was. "I believe in love and kindness. And also that if there is a God, and I'm still not certain on that point, begging your pardon Ms Michael, he helps those who help themselves. And I believe a woman needs to be able to take care of herself," she added, and swung her handbag at the demon's face. It was a substantial handbag. She'd found it in a charity shop a while back, a good quality leather one that was a bit tatty around the edges but had one of those firm, square bottoms that were riveted on, and nice strong handles. It was quite heavy, even before it had five VHS tapes stored inside it.

Ligur swore, clutching his nose, and the fire went out. "I can still strangle your mortal form," he spat. "And take the book, wherever you've hidden it."

"No," said Michael. Her voice was perfectly pleasant, and she was smiling, but it still felt like it had cracked out like a whip. Ligur flinched and stepped away from her.

"She hit me in the bloody face! Me, a Duke of Hell!"

"She's one of ours and she just rejected a demon. You can't touch her. It's all in the fine print, you know it as well as I do. Neither of us can go against the Plan."

"She fucking hit me! With her bag! What does she even keep in there, a pile of rocks?"

"She smote evil. You can't hold that against her, not when I've discorporated you five times myself. Look, if she uses the book to summon a demon, we've got her. You get her soul, I can smite her. Until then... didn't you offer to take me to try gross mortal matter?"

Ligur blinked, and Tracy was almost sure she could see nervousness in his red eyes. "You really want to try? Good pub near here. Does a nice chip butty."

"Might as well. Just don't let Gabriel know I'm consorting with, er, back channels."

"Back channels are the most fun," Ligur said, and Tracy was alone in her train carriage, trying to slow her hammering heart, and clutching her parcel.

Cecilia poked her head through the wall. "Are they gone?"

Tracy began to laugh, with what she was sure was hysterical relief. Angels and demons, consorting together. Eating chip butties. Life really was a thing of wonder.

* * *

Tracy had imagined A. Z. Fell's bookshop to look dark and poky, but instead it was its own slice of Heaven, sunlit and beautiful. Appropriate. The doorbell jangled as she entered, and a suitably cherubic man glanced up at her from a desk at which he was doing something complicated to a spine of the book.

"I'm afraid we're closed, dear lady." His voice was more brusque than it had been on the phone, but his handsome brow had lines of worry in it, and she didn't judge him.

"Your door says you are open."

"Really? I must have forgotten to change it. I'm expecting a most important phone call and..."

"It's me. Private Parts." Tracy raised her brown paper package, and Mr Fell's face changed like sunlight breaking out. Apparently not all angels were as stern as Michael.

"You did it! Oh, you clever, clever lady." He clapped his hands with joy. "Was it all right?"

"I had a bit of interference," she said carefully. "Mind if I tell you about it over a cup of tea?"

The tea was perfect, of course it was, absolutely heavenly, the steam rising from it like some kind of rapture bearing pure souls to heaven. Tracy sipped slowly, letting the general air of wellbeing Mr Fell exuded wash over her, like a cat basking in a sunbeam, and told him almost the whole story, only omitting mentions of Crowley.

"Oh, Private! I never meant to send a human into such danger!" He seemed genuinely distressed. "But how clever of you to hit him with your bag. Demons can be quite persistent, you know, if you don't take a firm line with them."

"I did wonder if I was putting my soul in mortal danger. Not that it probably isn't already," she added, trying to sound light-hearted about it. The last couple of days had been a bit of a strain. "I've hardly lived a life free of sin. And I can't say I repent, either. I did what I needed to survive, at first, but overall, I've enjoyed life."

Mr Fell cupped her jaw in his hand and looked into her eyes, or rather, she felt, through them. Whatever he saw there, he smiled and nodded. "You need have no fear on that account, Private. Michael was right about you. You're a good woman with a good soul, and will be confirmed as such in the final reckoning. Believe me, I can tell." He winked, unexpectedly and endearingly impish. "I can put in a good word for you if necessary, but it is unlikely to come to that. Don't hold human rules to too much account."

Tracy was more relieved than she thought she might have been. What she sensed from Ligur had been... Well. She wasn't sure anything would be worth that. Poor Mr Crowley. "I suppose you get used to the smell of brimstone eventually," she said vaguely.

"In the right circumstances, it can be quite attractive," Aziraphale said, with an oddly dreamy expression.

"I can hardly believe _that._ Like spending eternity with a dog with an upset tummy." She hesitated. "Will they be back for me?"

"I'll make sure they both know the book has been destroyed. I've blessed you enough that no demon can harm you, and Michael may be a stickler, but she won't smite a human for no reason. I'll make sure of it. Besides, they are neither of them very good at the modern human world." He straightened his bowtie, complacently. "It sounds like they don't know your real name, and even the concept of telephone directories is beyond them, I should wager. I think, however, that once I've set things to right, you'll be better off, and safer, not remembering any of this."

She felt a moment of regret, but... Knowing there were beings Ligur in the world, knowing all the torments past death. The lonely ghosts, the tragedies. She didn't want it. She didn't think any human should. "Not just yet. I have something important to do, first."

"Ah, yes. The child and the maiden." Mr Fell sipped his tea. "I really do think some things are, well, ineffable, really. You were the right person with the right powers and, may I say, the right heart, arriving at the right time."

"You need to fix things by Sunday, mind you. I'm a professional psychic on the side, and a good charlatan can't be having with all these genuine psychic powers. It's much more exciting and, I don't know, _real_ , to read my guests, not the cards. More human."

"I can understand the lure. I, myself, am a great admirer of conjurers. So clever. If I could just master the wrist action... But I didn't mean to grant you those abilities, you know. The talent of prophecy is too heavy a one for a mortal mind; most humans go mad under the burden." She could actually hear him pronounce the semicolon, although she would be at a loss to say how or why.

"I'll still get my fee?"

"With a sizable bonus. Hand me back the cheque?" She did, and he ripped it in half. She moved half out of her seat, outraged, but he smiled and patted her hand. "Don't worry. The fee will come. I give you my word. It's just better that you don't know it comes from me."

"Mr Fell, can you tell me the truth about something?"

"My dear, I'm an angel." He said it out loud, in a simple, slightly offended way, as if it was nothing at all to admit, no secret at all. But then, he was intending on rewriting her memory.

"Why do you want the book?"

His glance slid across her face, skittered around the room, his pale eyelashes fluttering with distress. "To tell the truth, there's someone I want to protect. Not a good person, I suppose. Positively evil. But in his heart, he's really very nice. Very--very nice indeed."

"What are you intending to do with it? Bind him to your will?"

"Of course not!" His cheeks flushed a deep rose. "I intend to destroy it to stop it falling into the wrong hands and put him in danger. I had only thought of mortals summoning him, but after what you told me... No, no, there are worse things than demon conjurers. It must be destroyed. Ah. After I've read it. Perhaps I should keep it safe instead."

She made up her mind, then and there, what to do with the book. She had already, to be honest. She just had to be sure she was making the right decision. She was now very sure indeed, but she held onto the brown paper parcel "If you are willing to take advice from a mortal who knows something about the way of the world, I'd talk to your friend. Let him know what you did for him, and let _him_ decide what to do with the book. No good comes of not letting someone know how you feel about them, you know." For some reason, she thought of Mr Shadwell, lonely in his hospital bed.

"I'm afraid you don't understand. We are very different people. Nothing whatsoever in common."

"Sometimes that's for the best. My Mr Potts, he was Salvation Army."

"Oh dear." He twinkled at her. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't really do any harm to let him know. Just in case he'd heard about it and was worrying. I do my best to keep him safe, you know, and he does the same for me. More than I think he lets me know."

The idiotic creatures, she thought, so ancient and powerful, and still so very much men. Or men-shaped beings. And then she thought-- _and me? Am I any different? Of course, there's my jobs, both of them, and he's made it clear he hardly approves of either, but there's no such thing as an insuperable obstacle to love. He's lonely, and so am I. Is that enough? It will just take time, and kindness, for us to understand each other. And... he's half-starved, poor duck. Needs someone to feed him up. That would... that would feel good. Maybe it doesn't make sense that I feel an ache of tenderness in my heart when I think about him. Maybe it doesn't have to. And he likes me, under all the bluster. I can tell. I can always tell._

"I'll make you a bargain," she said. "You tell your friend you have the book secure, and why, and I'll visit mine."

"It's a bargain." He smiled at her, with all the kindness of the world in his eyes. How could she ever have thought he was a demon?

She slid the parcel across the table to him. "There's a little extra something in there for you. It might," she said kindly, "be educational, and help you in talking to your friend. And I know you love your books," she added, gazing around at the treasure trove. She wasn't much of a reader, but it did seem a pity that she would not remember it in future. She wished she could ask him more questions... but, there. Some things weren't meant for humans to know, just like the ghosts and the future. Ineffable. She'd heard that word, once, and had no desire to eff the ineffable. "Goodbye, Mr Fell."

"Goodbye, Madam Tracy. Bless you."

It was a nonspecific blessing, but she felt as if golden honey was running through her veins nonetheless. She hardly thought to question the name he had called her. "Shall I really never see you again?"

"You never know." His smile bathed her in warmth. "Some existences are bound together in some ways. It's quite ineffable, really."

* * *

"Hello, dear," Tracy said, making her way up to the bedroom.

Jessica twirled around delightedly, beads clicking audibly in her braids. She seemed much more solid. "Hi! Did you have fun?"

Tracy sat down on her bed and looked seriously at the little girl. "My dear, I'm afraid your mum's not coming home."

The joyful little face closed up in fear and fury. "She is. She promised."

"Don't be sad, dove," Tracy said, although her own heart was aching. "She did her very best to come home, but she didn't have a chance. But she's waiting for you now, and I have a friend that can take you to her."

"I'll miss Doctor Who!"

"That's all right, Jessica." Tracy opened her handbag and pulled out a VHS with a faded cover, very glad she'd never got around to upgrading to DVD or Blu-Ray or whatever the new-fangled thing was now. "We can watch together, all three of us, and then you can tell Mum all about it. I bet she wants to know what happens to the Doctor and Leela, so you need to pay attention and memorise every bit."

"But what if I get scared? You can't hold my hand or hug me."

"I can," said Cecilia, appearing behind her. "I love little girls. I always wanted one of my own."

"This is my friend, Jessica. Miss Cecilia."

"You'll take me to Mum?"

"I promise," Cecilia said, voice catching. "I'll bring you safely to her." She reached out a hand, and Jessica grasped it, trustingly.

"She'll be very happy to see you both," Tracy said, trying not to weep.

The Rutan was indeed terrifying, but the Doctor was very clever and Leela was very brave. Cecilia put her arm around Jessica and Jessica hid her face on her flat bosom during the scary bits, peeping out when it was safe to look. Watching them together, Tracy felt some of the wellbeing she had felt around Mr Fell, or Aziraphale, or whatever his name was.

"Do Leela's eyes stay blue?" Jessica asked, disappointed. "I liked them better when they were brown like mine."

"You have very lovely eyes, dear," Tracy said, although both Jessica and Cecilia had faded over the episodes to the extent that she couldn't detect colour in them at all. "Your mum will be so glad to see them again. Say hello to her for me, will you, and tell her I would like to meet her someday? Hopefully far in the future, though. Goodbye, darling." She kissed the general region of Jessica's cheek.

"Goodbye, and thank you, my first friend," Cecilia said, holding Jessica's hand tight. "I'll be very glad to see you when you arrive." They faded further.

"I'll be glad to see you too, but not just yet! A lot of happiness left in the world for me yet, and a lot of fun," Tracy told the empty space.

She sat still and alone for a while, feeling very, very alone. And then she shook herself. There was no way Mr Shadwell was enjoying hospital food. She needed to sneak him in some condensed milk. Life, after all, was good. Full of love and kindness. And, in the end, that was all that mattered.

* * *

In a very old bookshop in Soho, Aziraphale gently put the phone back in its cradle. Crowley would be over soon. Purely a social visit, of course... but he had sounded younger than his six thousand years, somehow, when Aziraphale had invited him over. A lightness in his voice that hadn't been there since Eden. They would open the book, and decide what to do with it together, and perhaps that nice mortal had been right, and they could, well, talk. Things had been hard, he knew. It's not like he could say he cared for Crowley. And Crowley couldn't say the same, either. But Crowley had come for him when he was in danger, and maybe... just maybe... Crowley deserved to know someone was looking out for him too.

If a mortal could look out for a ghost she had just met, he could be brave, too.

He unwrapped the parcel. Of course, she had said she had included a gift for him. Such a lovely thought. Humans could be so selflessly, utterly sweet, sometimes. Really very pure-hearted. He wondered what she had given him.

The door banged open, some time later. It was closed, but that wouldn't matter to... Oh, dear. Aziraphale tried to shove Tracy's present under the book, and apparently he had forgotten how physics worked, because of course something its size wouldn't fit under, and...

"Aziraphale, we need to talk. Angel, I--I-- What are you reading?"

Well, at least he had surprised Crowley for once. Aziraphale drew himself up with dignity, deciding to face it. "You know I take an interest in all kinds of human literature."

"Yes, but... _Lusty Studs?_ Since when were you interested in--you--angel--"

Aziraphale flushed bright red and, somewhere by a hospital bed in Easton, Madame Tracy laughed.

It was only a coincidence, but it happened all the same.

* * *

"Come on, love. Let's get you settled." Tracy helped Mr Shadwell into his chair, trying not to look too much around--he did need someone to take care of him, that was clear. "I'll make you a nice cup of tea, and here's today's paper. Oh, look, you can check the lotto and see if our numbers came up." She didn't say it with much hope. Filling out lotto tickets had been an excuse to take Mr Shadwell's mind off things. He had grumbled a bit about the evils of gambling and the luck of the devil, but he had shown more animation than he had for a bit. And a shared Lotto ticket was... well, it was intimate, somehow. Like a shared bank account.

"What's the point of it? I told ye, no one wins with a sequence like 2 4 6 8 10."

"I just had a good feeling about the numbers. All a bit of fun, isn't it?" Tracy asked, and he gave her a surprisingly soft look.

He was a dear old soul, in his way. Ranting against a universe that had been unkind to him, but with a burning sense of his own need to protect it from evil nonetheless. The protectiveness was a good sign, and the Witchfinder Army thing made sense to her as a way to recognise the inherent romance of the world. He was a strange knight, Mr Shadwell, with his nicotine-stained fingers and general air of being a very ugly pug with a torn ear. As a child Tracy had always loved the dolls with their hair coming off and broken fingers most, had wanted to adopt the ugliest cats and the rabbits most prone to biting and love them.

In the end, it didn't matter why she liked and cared for him so much. After all, without love and kindness in the universe, where were you?

"Woman! Look here!" Mr Shadwell was shaking, and shaking a finger at the page. "The numbers, woman! Look at the numbers!" He was so excited his accent ranged from Manchester to Glasgow in a single exclamation. She wandered over and stared.

Not a fortune. There were a lot of Jackpot winners that week--apparently skip sequences were popular. Not enough to change their lives. But it would come in handy. About 4000 pounds each. 4004, in fact. Enough to put some into her savings and get herself a little treat, and enough to ease things for Mr Shadwell. They beamed at each other with delight, and then Shadwell turned bright red and looked away.

Tracy supposed she truly was blessed.

**-end-**


End file.
